Empty

They told me they were empty.

Not in a dramatic way.
Just a statement, offered early.
I nodded and stayed.

I walked alongside them.
I offered time.
A small box of moments.
We talked. We laughed. We shared stories.
There were hugs. Ease. A sense of something forming.

They told me again they were empty.

I stayed.
We did things together.
We went places.
We enjoyed ourselves.
It felt light. It felt promising.

I offered something simple.
A piece of cake.
Not to fix anything.
Just to share.

They told me again they were empty.

I stayed.
I walked alongside them still.
But I noticed something had shifted.
I was starting to feel it too.

Not emptiness at first.
Just effort.
A quiet tiredness.
A sense that what I was offering was not landing anywhere.

I offered a drink.
And this time, I paused.

I said something gently.
Not a demand.
Not an accusation.
Just how it felt to keep offering without anything being held.

I didn’t ask them to be full.
I didn’t ask them to change.
I just named what was happening for me.

They disappeared.

No conversation.
No pause.
No putting things down carefully.

Just gone.

I stood there holding what I had brought.
Time. Care. Presence.
Now, with nowhere to place it.

And that was when I felt it.

Empty.

Not because I had been empty to begin with.
But because I had stayed so long beside someone who could not hold what was offered.

Empty is not something you start with.
Sometimes it is something you absorb.